The National Geographic Magazine
"I also called the local U. S. Fish and
Wildlife office. They told me that a scientist
from the National Geographic Society, who
knows a lot about sea horses, is working here
in southern Florida right now. They suggest
that we consult him."
The secretary was all ready to place a call
to The Society's Washington offices to see
where that specialist might be located, when
Briggs let out a roar of laughter.
"Well," he said to me between chuckles,
"you've obviously come full circle and met
up with yourself."
Shells Wash Island of Sanibel
From Naples we drove northward to Fort
Myers, then crossed via the Punta Rasa ferry
to shell-famed Sanibel Island. My good
friend William D. (Tom) Wood was in charge
of the Government wildlife refuge there. He
would certainly be able to help.
That we were still in sea horse territory
was emphasized within an hour of our arrival
on Sanibel. We stopped for lunch and had
just sat down at the counter when Jack, the
jovial proprietor, handed each of the children
a dried sea horse.
"A memento of Sanibel," he said with a
smile. A little self-consciously, the children
accepted. I didn't tell Jack that our car was
loaded with carboys containing scores of the
same species-alive!
"The waters here are full of sea horses,"
Tom Wood told me next day. He mentioned
that currently his job was to fly a little pon
tooned four-seater along the coast in search
of sea discoloration stemming from pollution
by the dangerous Gymnodinium breve. Out
breaks of this microorganism, he told us, have
left miles and miles of Florida's Gulf coast
littered with millions of rotting fish.
"Why don't you come along on my next
reconnaissance trip?" Tom asked.
"We'll put
down at Earl Johnson's fish house in Pine
Island Sound. He makes his living collecting
sea horses for the souvenir trade."
While waiting for Tom's next scheduled
take-off, my family and I settled in a carefree
house near the edge of Sanibel's blazing white
beach. Suddenly sea shells gave strong com
petition to sea horses, for Sanibel is one of the
most famous shelling centers in the world
(pages 140-1).
My wife and children soon became enthu
siastic conchologists, filling the house with
beautiful calicos, angel wings, coquinas, tur-
key wings, cockles, buttercups, sun-rays, lion's
paws, whelks.
"Some beach, isn't it?" shouted Tom above
the motor's noise, the day of our first flight
over Sanibel. The broad white ribbon be
low, with its accompaniment of gently roll
ing surf, was indeed something to behold.
Tom banked and headed for the island's inner
flank, then flew northward up the sound. In
a few minutes we spotted three strange huts
on pilings out in an empty expanse of water.
"These chaps live here year round," Tom
commented as we landed.
"They don't go
ashore for months at a time."
Soon, with the plane tied up at one of the
pilings, we were in Earl Johnson's watery
one-room hermitage.
"Yep, lots of sea horses here. Mostly
dwarfs."
Rummaging on a shelf, Earl pro
duced a box containing thousands of dried
zosterae done up in neat cellophane packets of
a hundred each.
"Price too low right now...
only $12 a thousand. Holding these till the
price goes up.
"Giants? No, we don't get many here. The
shrimpers up at Tarpon Springs get the big
ones. Or try the 'pushers' in Tampa Bay."
Pushers? Tom looked at me and shrugged.
The reference, however, intrigued me.
Sweeping the Shallows of Tampa Bay
A few days later, leaving my family happily
ensconced on Sanibel, I drove north to the
Tampa-St. Petersburg area. There I looked
up Mr. Ace E. R. Spencer, who manufactures
a special type of lightweight push net.
"Certainly," said Mr. Spencer, "Tampa
Bay is full of sea horses. Soon as this rain
lets up, we're going out on a collecting trip.
Glad to have you come along, if you like."
The rain was pelting down with an almost
tropical fury. But before long it abated, and
we set out-Spencer, Mrs. Selma Deane, and
her pretty young daughter, Donna.
"Donna easily makes school expenses from
sea horses," Spencer said as the outboard pro
pelled our skiff well offshore across the vast
shallows of Tampa Bay.
"She gets up to $60
a thousand, although the usual price is $25.
On good days a single 'pusher' can take 1,500
or 2,000, or even more ... figure it out."
A definition of the term "pusher" was soon
supplied. We had cast anchor in water about
three feet deep. Spencer, Mrs. Deane, and
Donna hopped overboard, each with a net
(Continued on page 153)
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